Lunch

I used to pick out the parts of me to bring to you 

Like a cat picking out the bones of a dead bird. 

A gift that’s easier to swallow. 

(And I used to deny it but) 

This is a gift, my honesty. 

Even if you don’t want it, 

even if you don’t know what to do with it. 

I’m getting better at the hunt, 

The tender meat and tender transaction, 

Making a live thing go still in my mouth. 

One day I won’t pick anything out. 

I’ll throw an untethered handful 

of feelings in a picnic basket. 

Bring it to the garden 

behind your house. 

Lay them all out 

on the blanket you’ll bring, 

the strawberries and discomfort, 

the bread and cheese. 

You’ll say, ‘None of this is my responsibility,’ 

and I’ll say, ‘Of course not. It’s lunch.’ 

Illustration by Mildred Cheng.